


Virginitiphobia

by bibliolatry



Series: A Tale of Phobias [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, John is a Saint, M/M, Poor Sherlock, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Virginitiphobia - An abnormal and persistent fear of rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virginitiphobia

John is safe. Must get back to John. John is safe.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice rings out above the crowd and Sherlock twists and turns his body, looking for his friend. 

John is safe. Must get back to John. John is safe.

There are too many people. The crowds too large. Why? Why did he decide that today would be a good day to visit this God forsaken place? What, in John’s tiny little mind, made him think Sherlock would enjoy the overcrowded Royal Observatory as a way to overcome boredom between cases. Cases are necessary to cleanse the mind. John is necessary to cleanse the mind. 

John is safe. Must get back to John. John is safe.

“Sherlock! Where are you?” John’s voice rings out again. It sounds a bit further away this time.

Sherlock is fighting down panic. There are too many people. Someone could grab him. Someone could grab him and force him to his knees, strip him down and force their way into him. Pain surges through Sherlock’s body. He doubles over; the fear and adrenaline, the phantom pain momentarily blinding him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, shifting him, helping him stand. It’s John; it has to be John. John is safe.

Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to relax just yet. He still can’t see properly, the world around him is a blur. The man is pulling him away from the crowd, heading towards a door. A door in a corner of the building that no one seems to be paying attention to. Sherlock’s mind can’t focus, can’t register this as anything other than a fact.

He’s pushed through the door; his breathing labored, his eyes watering. A hand is slammed over his mouth, he’s forced to his hands and knees. His greatcoat is raised, pushed over his hips; his trousers jiggled around until their undone and pushed down to his knees. His pants follow shortly. He can’t speak, can’t scream; only tears and sharp gasps as he tries to make his body fight. He’s frozen in fear; his worst nightmare playing out before his eyes. There’s pain, oh so much pain, and he still can’t make a sound. The man’s grunting, thrusting, moaning quietly.

“So tight. So fucking tight.”

His ass is slapped, his shoulders shoved down so the man’s entering him at a different angle. His grunting increases, thrusts becoming more erratic.

Suddenly there’s nothing. The weight is gone from his body. He shivers, his arms give out and he falls to the floor. Blinded by tears, he blinks until his sight has come back enough he can vaguely make out a familiar, short, well-built man throwing punches at a stranger. 

“John,” he chokes out, his voice barely audible over the sound of skin on skin as John throws punch after punch. 

John leans back, staring down at the bruised and bloodied face before him. His entire demeanor is a perfect depiction of rage. This man, this thing, dared to lay a hand on Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who always seems so untouchable, has been diminished to a silently crying ball of terrified being. Sherlock, who should always be protected from the world as much as himself.

“John,” he turns quickly, eyes focusing on the broken man before him. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes, moving across the floor towards him. Sherlock flinches and John pauses. There’s a moment where they just stare at each other and then, Sherlock gives a subtle nod and John is by his side in an instant. He takes off his coat, lays it over Sherlock’s lower half. It would cause too much pain to try and pull his pants and trousers up. He pulls his phone out and calls Lestrade. This man will not get away with this; he will meet his just end. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m right here.”

Sherlock dissolves into audible sobs; his voice echoing in the empty space surrounding them. A knock at the door distracts John for a moment and he returns with Lestrade, Donovan (who, for once, looks sympathetic to his plight), and some paramedics. John remains by Sherlock’s side as he’s looked over and transferred to the nearest hospital. Charges are pressed; the man is imprisoned. John’s not happy, he deserved worse than what he got.

“Let it go, John,” Sherlock says. “You’re here. You’re safe. Stay with me, please.”

John nods, sits in the chair by Sherlock’s bed. Mycroft should be here soon. They’ll figure out how to deal with this guy properly. John has a plan.


End file.
